Beauty Queen of Only Eighteen
by Honour Society
Summary: AU: Six years ago, Cam chose Claire over Massie. Now Massie's life is a whirlwind of hookups, parties, black eyeshadow and punk rock concerts. Her band is the hottest in America and everyone loves her. But is life at the top too much for her to handle?
1. Five Minutes to Heartbreak

**Author's Note: **I'm in the mood for Cassie. And angst. Expect an update for Dusk and Summer soon, loves. Until then, this'll have to do.

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own anything of or relating to _The Clique _or any brands mentioned. Just stole that from another of my fics. Song lyrics are from "Vacation" by Katy Rose and "Losing My Religion" by R.E.M. respectively. The lyrics in the title are from Maroon 5's "She Will Be Loved."

**BEAUTY QUEEN OF ONLY EIGHTEEN**

-A Clique _Fanfiction by: Honour Society- _

**CHAPTER ONE: FIVE** **MINUTES TO HEARTBREAK**

**000**

__

Oh, I don't need an education,  
Just a microphone's intoxication.  
And I can't deal with concentration,  
Give me tongues and stimulation.

**000**

"More mascara," I direct the stupid bimbo who's doing my makeup. Her gentle application of pearly pink glosses and subtle bronzers and other such beauty queen-type items will be the death of me, honest to God.

"Okay…" The woman is pretty, but in that conventional way. Her sand-coloured hair had been blow-out, probably by a professional, and swept into an artfully messy, Kate-Austen-from-_Lost_-style bun.

She's probably under strict orders from my manager not to a) ignore everything I say and b) make me look more "marketable." That's our manager's favourite word. "Marketable." It's the word that sent Kemp to the hairdresser's after years of not cutting his infamous brown locks. It's the word that made Derrick ditch his shorts for designer jeans. It's the word that made Josh take off his Yankees cap during performances. It's the word that made Plovert quit burping after every set.

And now, it became the word that's seperating me from my favourite smoky eye look.

A mirror hangs on the wall of my dressing room, directly in front of me. I hate the girl staring back. Gently curled hair, soft makeup, becoming smile. I hate her. That's my sister. That's Claire Block. That's Kendra Block. It's not me.

"You're done." Somewhat abruptly, I remove myself from the chair. The makeup artist — _if you could even call her "artist" __— _looks confused. But in the end, I'm the one paying her. She picks up her bubblegum-pink Sephora makeup cases and makes for the door. She's just about to leave and I feel myself relaxing when she calls out: "Wait!"

"Yeah?" This ought to be interesting. I place my hands on my hips — too slim, and not at all shapely like fitness magazines encourage, but I don't really care — and raise an eyebrow at her.

"I was wondering — If you have the time..." She bites her pale pink lip. "Would you sign an autograph for my daughter? She completely idolizes you. Paperback Romance is her favourite band ever."

"Absolutely." I flash her a sparkling, toothy grin. She smiles back at me. "On on condition." Her smile falters.

"Yes?"

"Fix this." I point towards the girl in the mirror, who looks so delicate and fragile and not at all like Massie Block, lead singer of Paperback Romance.

I see hesitation in her ocean-blue eyes. "I don't know if I should... Missy told me that —"

"Who cares about Missy? She's just my manager! She's practically brain dead! You don't want to disappoint your daughter, do you?" Playing the guilt card always works, especially on working mothers. I appear to have struck a chord with her, as her face wrinkles in deep concentration.

"Done."

"That's what I like to hear."

**000**

_Every whisper of every waking hour,  
I'm choosing my confessions,  
Trying to keep an eye on you.  
Like a hurt, lost and blinded fool _

**000**

"I told you my sister would get us free tickets to her show." Claire Block grips my hand so tightly, I think I've lost all blood circulation to my wrists. Is this how cutters feel? Maybe I'll become one after tonight. Why did I say yes?

"That's..." I look for the right word, but come up empty, "cool of her."

Claire and I are currently in the longest line ever. Somewhere up ahead is the "coolest club ever!" (Her words, not mine), called Flow. You'd think that Claire, being the sister of the lead singer, would be able to pull some strings, but no. The rocky relationship between the Block girls is legendary. _Us Weekly _and _People _and _Star _chronicle the daily ups and downs of their sisterhood.

Obviously, today is a down.

There are no similarities in appearance or personality between the Block sisters at all. Zero. Zip. Nada. Massie is fire, Claire is ice. While Massie's flawless, porcelain skin, slightly upturned nose, waist-length inky hair with side-swept bangs and punk-chic look nail the covers of top magazines, Claire's gentle, beauty queen-esque blondness only make her the brunt of blonde jokes at school.

That's right. I go to school with Claire Stacy Block, sister of Paperback Romance's lead singer, Massie. Up until seventh grade, when Massie formed the band, I used to go to school with her, too. Strangest of all, Massie had a crush on me. A massive one. But so did her twin sister, Claire.

I picked Claire. Over Massie, who currently clocks in at number twelve on _Maxim_'s Hot 100 list.

Not my proudest moment.

"Look, Cammie!" Claire tugs on the sleeve of my Hollister henley. I fake a smile for her and bring my eyes up to whatever's caught her short attention span. "The line's moving.

"Terrific."

Anyway, ever since Massie penned Paperback Romance's (or simply, PR's) first hit single, _Blue, Green and Everywhere In Between, _I've been sort of...a major fanboy. As most American teenagers are. PR has a cult following, with Massie's now world-famous amber eyes smack dab in the center of it all.

And for the first time since I'd blatantly rejected her for her younger-by-twelve-minutes sister, I would be seeing America's hottest rockstar under the age of twenty.

**000**

_Don't give me words of hard degration,  
I only accept infatuation.  
I'm a fragile kind of glass,  
I won't wear your stupid mask. _

**000 **

We're on in five. This is when my non-alcoholic buzz starts revving up. Just before a big show, I get the tingles in the bottom of my stomach. The makeup lady, who I'm now proud to call an _artiste_, gave me a whole new look. This one involves a lot less bronzer, some blood-red lipstick and about five pounds of black eye makeup. I changed into my stage outfit not long after that; a pair of black skinny-legged jeans, an off-the-shoulder white t-shirt that lets my lucky purple bra show through in a completely non-slutty way, and some wedge heels.

I don't know why, but I was practically came out of the womb loving expensive shoes. No Keds or Converse for me; that's Claire's thing.

"Ready, Block?" Derrick Harrington, our lead guitarist and back-up vocalist, smirks at me crookedly. I roll my eyes. The tumultuous relationship between us is epic. While one magazine is proclaiming our love story, another is detailing our breakup. But that's just life. I've learned to deal with it.

"Always, Derrington." I use the nickname our fans have given him. I know he loathes it. Take that, blondie.

"Don't fight it, Block. You know we're meant to be."

"Kiss my ass."

"Gladly."

"Ugh! You are such a —"

" — Great guitarist with male model-like good looks? I know. Thanks, though."

"That's _so _not what I was going to say! You make me —"

" — Sick with lust and attraction? Again, I know. Always a pleasure to hear it, though."

With as much contempt as I could muster on short notice, I scowled at him. It was arguments like these that always lead to our best preformances — he knew it, I knew it. We also knew, that whenever we got into banter battles like these, I always ended up knocking on his hotel room door at some ungodly hour of the night.

**I wrote a couple more chapters after this one, so expect regular updates. Odd from me, I know. I know you love music, Hannah, so I randomlly thought of writing a music-inspired Cassie OneShot, which turned into THIS!! Everyone! Please! Request songs for later chapters! It's gonna be about five chapters long, with one update every day! **


	2. Remembering You

**Author's Note:** Those reviews are kick-ass. Seriously. Keep it up. And, just cuz' it's for Hannah, I had to add a little Hannah Montana/Jonas Brothers hating. Another update is coming at you tomorrow!

**Disclaimer: **_(See previous chapter for general disclaimer)_ Don't own the song lyrics featured in this fic. Cam's POV is "Only Fooling Myself" by: Kate Voegele. Massie's POV is "I Wanna Be A Kennedy" by: Kill Hannah... Lol, the band's name.

**CHAPTER TWO: REMEMBERING YOU**

**000**

_One day I'll turn around.  
I'll see your hand reach out.  
I'm only fooling myself, oh..._

**000**

If it wasn't enough that Claire was acting more cling-on-y than usual and she couldn't hold beer down for shit, we'd also managed to score some of the worst seats in the crowded club. The distinct smell of cheap cologne and even cheaper perfume hung in the humid air, but I'm not going to investigate further. The crowd is mostly made up of teenagers and twentysomethings and everyone is either completely preppy or covered in black. Claire and I are definitely included in the preppy section.

Her blond hair was held up with some weird tartan-print heaband-y thing and she looks like a total one-stop-shopper at American Eagle. Not that I look remotely cool.

"Cammie." Claire smiles so hard it pains me to look at her. I give her a tentative grimace. "Love you." And with that, she deposits her hands on my shoulders and pulls me in and presses her lips that smell like fruit to mine. People are staring. Apparently making out with your preppy girlfriend before a PR concert is not appropriate.

I cough into her mouth when her tiny pink tongue tickles mine.

She draws back. Her blue eyes which are always on the verge of tears widen.

"Cammie..."

"The show's starting, Claire." I give her a smile and reassuring hand-squeeze. Though she doesn't look completely convinced, she nods her head slightly.

Before this, the phrase "breathtakingly beautiful" was merely an overused cliché, but when I see Massie Block, in the flesh, prance out in a sexy, skin-tight outfit and rasp into the microphone, "Are you ready for the experience of a lifetime?" I understand that clichés are merely truths.

"Good God, Cam." Claire's blond eyebrows shot skywards. "Did you bring your inhaler? Maybe the music's too loud? Are you okay? Should I call the paramedics?"

"I'm fine, Claire." And I really truly mean that.

**000**

_I'll be brave tonight,  
Either live or die.  
I'll be brave tonight,  
Standing tall and bright._

**000**

"'_I guess not!_'" The last words to the song came from that same dark place inside me as I rasp them into the microphone with all I have. My heart's beating so loud I bet the front rowers can hear each thump-thump. My hips sway from side-to-side and I don't even realize how involved I am with my music. Kemp's drum beat matches my heart.

I paste a smirk on my face. "Thanks for coming out tonight." I don't wink or blow a kiss or say "I love you all!" like Claire would. I just walk off the stage and into the wings.

Missy, PR's manager greets me with a death glare. Uh-oh. I stare back with equal intensity. Her honey blond hair forms a perfect shield over her green eyes. She's wearing some Chanel or Dior tweed suit. Her stilettos look like they could kill a man. I blink.

A wry smile curls up on her perfectly-symmetrical face. "Brava, Massie dear. No encore, though? Just a couple songs and you're done? The public wants more of you."

"The public can go _—" _

"— Buy our new single!" Derrick and his usual smirk pop up beside me. He drops an arm — which I regret to inform you is tan and taut as in last month's _GQ _— on my shoulder and plants a surprise kiss on my cheek. Ew. Is that his tongue?

"Gross!"

Missy's eyes twinkle at the sight of us. "You too are just the cutest couple I ever did see. The newest Miley and Nick."

"Didn't they break up a million years ago?' Derrick says with a confused look at the same time I say, with a quirked eyebrow, "Who are they?"

Randomly, a baseball-cap-clad PA taps my bare shoulder. He gulps when I turn around and shoot him the patented Massie Glare. For some reason, my amber eyes freak people out. "Um...Miss Block? There's someone here to see you. Says she's your sister."

"Shit." I completely forgot about inviting her. "Tell her to go —"

"Wait for us at the bar downstairs." Derrick rears his annoying little blond head again. "We'll be right there."

The PA looks doubtful; he looks at me. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Derrick grins, baring all of his laser-whitened teeth. "She's sure."

**000**

_Well, now it's etched in stone  
That I can't survive alone.  
You have the missing piece  
That I need so desperately._

**000**

"Ehmagawd! This is so kewl!" Claire's voice reaches a new octave. "A real, live bar! With real, live beer!" I don't bother mentioning that beer isn't actually alive and wonder if she's had 'fake' beer before. She runs her fingers through her pin-straight hair about a trillion times and fluffed up her blunt bangs much more than that. She will be the death of me, no hyperbole there.

We're sitting side-by-side, looking every bit the perfect couple, at Flow's bar. Two glasses of club soda, with lime, sit in front of us. Claire's downed hers already. I kind of half to wonder if she thinks they're alcoholic. Mine stares back at me. Untouched.

It's around the time that Claire's starting acting tipsy (My suspicion is growing; she can't think those tumblers of Diet Sprite can give you a buzz, can she?) that a hush falls over the club. No lies. For about five seconds, everyone is quiet. The blonde sitting on the bar-top stops making out with the tie-clad man. A group of women who are entirely too old to be here press the pause button on their never-ending giggles. Even Alfred, the 200-pound, heavyweight champion bartender quits making the martini some Lauren Conrad-lookalike has ordered.

Not long after that, the subconsious silence is broken by whispers. I may not have the best hearing around; that award goes to Miss Claire Block, who seems to be able to hear every move I make, but even I can pick out key words from the quiet conversations. _Massie. Here. Paperback Romance. Know her? Famous. Just a kid. _

"Claire."

Both Claire and I turn around. There she is. In all her 5'9 glory, though those killer heels she's wearing must boost her up a couple inches.

Massie Block.

Claire giggles. "Long time no see, sis!"

"Not long enough, if you ask me."


	3. This Again

**Author's Note:** Some general T-rated-ness in here. Swearing, mentions of that baby-making act. Nothing explicit. Don't like, don't read.

**Disclaimer:** _(See first chapter for general disclaimer.) _I don't own the song lyrics, Massie's come from "Between Love & Hate" by The Strokes; Cam's come from "What Ever Happened?" also by The Strokes, which is definitely my favourite song from them. Just so you know. Derrick's tattoo comes from a Beatles song.

**CHAPTER THREE: THIS AGAIN **

**000 **

_Am I wrong?  
Don't sing along with me.  
I said I was fine, it's just the second time.  
We lost the war._

**000 **

I've changed out of my stage outfit and into a more user-friendly ensemble. A pair of low-riding jeans, white tank top. I pulled my hair into two buns on either side of my head. Derrick called me Princess Leia when he saw me. I stuck my tongue out at him. He just winked. Bastard.

If you don't mind my extreme sarcasm, this is quite a cozy little set-up here. Cam and Claire, looking like they just strolled out of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue to get here. Me and Derrick, looking altogether too much like a couple. His hand keeps snaking its way around my shoulders. I shoot him my patented death glare. Another wink. Good God.

"So, Golden Couple." Derrick's smirk seems to be painted over his face. He's grinning ear-to-ear and making Claire blush so hard it looks as if she could spontaneously combust any second now. "What brings you here?"

Claire beams. "Massie invited us. She's my sister you know."

"Oh, believe me, _we know_." Sarcasm drips from my every syllable, but Claire just looks hopeful. She nods at me. Nods? At me?? Since when have we ever gotten along? Since when have I been blessed with a nod from The Great Claire formerly-of-Lyons now-of-Block?

If you want the whole sordid, boo-hoo sob story, go check out PR's _E! True Hollywood Story_. I'll give it to you straight, though. No sugar-coating. My dad was cheating on my mom with the wife of his best friend from college, Judi. My mom caught them…in compromising positions and moved the two of us out of the house. Not long after that, dad's lawyer slapped mom with a loverly settlement deal. A couple weeks later, ba-da-boom-ba-da-bing, my dad's remarried and I've gained two _darling _stepsiblings.

I don't want to admit it. Can't admit it. But Cam looks kind of...attractive...in a completely non-romantic, third-party way. His hair is all tousled and his face is one hundred percent free of a Derrick-esque smirk. I feel a blush rising up my cheeks. Shit. Don't put yourself in this position, Massie! Damnit.

"Damnit," I say out loud. Within seconds, a shot glass (of tequila? Something stronger? Do I even care?) has been deposited in front of me. Down the hatchet. It sends tingles down my spine and I half-heartedly raise my pointer finger for another. _This is gonna be a long night... _

**000**

_I wanna be beside her.  
She wanna be admired.  
You say "please don't make this harder."  
No, I won't yet. _

**000 **

An hour and four tequila shots later, and Massie is a completely different person. A giggly person. A giggly, flirty person. A giggly, flirty person with frizzy hair. Claire wouldn't be caught dead looking like her sister. In jeans and a white tank, with her hair spilled over her top, Massie Block looks kind of...normal. As in, not the type of girl who's featured in _Seventeen _and _COSMOgirl! _

"Isn't he cute?" she's saying, pointing to a smirky Derrick Harrington. She's sitting on his lap and laughs at everything he says, tossing her hair back. Her eyes are glazed-over and her wine-red lip stick has all come off on the cocktail napkins, but she doesn't seem to care. Moreover, Claire keeps trying to insert herself in the conversation, but Massie speaks in short-hand. Every other word is an inside joke. Worst of all, Claire doesn't even know she's being blatantly ignored and excluded.

Not that Massie is exactly begging to hear my opinion on the presidential election or anything.

In fact, ever since she met up with us, she hasn't spoken _one word _to me. Occasionally, I think I catch her looking at me, but then she looks away so fast I wonder if it was just a hallucination.

Does she even remember me?

"Yeah..." Claire replies, batting her eyelashes at warp-speed. She attempts a come-hither look. It's highly entertaining to watch Claire flirt. She does this whenever I'm not paying her enough attention. She just finds some random guy and pouts her lips and bats her eyelashes and twirls her hair around her fingers. Kind of like the " slutty best friend" type in a romantic comedy.

Not that I've ever seen one.

Okay, so I have. But that's only because Claire adores them. Cliche, happily-ever-endings are her favourite. While I'm pondering this, Massie's yawns become more frequent until her amber eyes have closed forever, denying the world view. Derrick gives her a look. Not a smirk. A smile? Something like that. I hate him for that and I don't know why.

Okay, I do.

Because she was mine first. And I didn't want her.

And know that I do, she's his.

He picks her up, fireman-style, salutes the two of us goodbye and carries her off to God knows where.

"They make such a cuh-yute couple, don't you think?" Claire swipes one of Massie's half-empty shot glasses. She takes a tiny sip and wrinkles her nose in disgust at the taste. "_Ew_."

She said a mouthful there.

**000**

_P.S., if I may ask why,  
When will they get tired?  
We've stayed up  
__All night tryin' — Tryin.' _

**000**

"You sure you want to do this?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

"Nice enthusiasm, Mass."

"_Do not _call me Mass, Harrington."

"Fine, _Block._"

I can't see anything. If I could, I would see Derrick's hotel room which always manages to be better than mine. Possibly because Missy The Cougar has a crush on him the size of Tom Cruise's ego. My shirt is somewhere on the floor. My jeans are still hanging on to my hips. I can't quite tell, but I bet my hair is all matted to my face with sweat. Gross.

There's no light in the room and when Derrick starts kissing me, gentle at first, I pretend it's someone else. Not Zac Efron or some eye-candy of the month or whoever like some girls. I have _no clue_ who this imaginary someone is. But he's skinnier, taller than Derrington. Paler. Without the tattoo on his shoulder that says "_Golden slumbers fill your eyes, smiles awake you when you rise_..." With darker, longer hair. With different-coloured eyes...

I jolt awake.

Shit. What time is it? Upon finding myself naked, I'm vaguely aware of Derrick's snoring form beside me. He's stolen all the bedsheets as per usual. _Shitshitshitshit. _

What hath I done?

Did I really think about my sister's boyfriend during sex? _Yes._

Am I really this much of an idiot? _Definitely. _

Where are my fricking clothes? _Who knows? _

You can't answer a question with a question. _You're the one who keeps running dialogue WITH YOURSELF. _

I pull on my underwear, bra, my jeans. Still can't find my tank top. But whatever. I glance at the clock on the wall, through squinted, hung-over eyes. _5:06_. Presumably in the morning. Who's even up this early? Besides, only in a teen drama would I leave the hotel room in a bra and pair of pants and find_ — _

_"Cam?" _

_"Massie?" _

_"Claire?" _

_"Massie?"_

**000**

_Whose culture is this and does anybody know?  
I wait and tell myself, "Life ain't chess,"  
But no one comes in and yes, you're alone.  
You don't miss me,  
I know. _


	4. Liar, Liar, Shorts On Fire

**Author's Note: **The response I'm getting is amazing! It's pretty hard to believe that this is the second-to-last chapter!

**_For 33sheenaxzelos33 and_ _anyone else_** _**who's wondering, Yes, this story is definitely Cassie. **Sorry. Maybe I'll write a little Massington for you guys later. If you have a request for me, though, just click on over to my requests forum. ;) _

**_JUST SO YOU KNOW: _This chapter is written ENTIRELY in CAM'S POV.** Next chapter will be all Massie's to make up for it.

**Disclaimer: **(See chapter one for general disclaimer.) Cam's song is "White Lies," by Paolo Nutini.

**CHAPTER FOUR: LIAR, LIAR, SHORTS ON FIRE**

**000**

_There's a heart on the line,  
And it rests with your eyes.  
Please don't fade and please don't cry,  
'Cause it's all white lies._

**000**

Imagine the most awkward situation you've ever been in. Fallen on your face in front of the entire school? Stepped in something brown and squishy? Got a horrible haircut? Yeah, whatever, take that and multiply it by infinity. Then you've got your whiny girlfriend waking you up at some godforsaken hour of the morning to go jogging — jogging for God's sake!— _when you bump into her sister, wearing only a bra, stumbling out of her bandmate's bedroom. _

After repeating each other's names in incredulous tones for about five minutes, Massie's face lit up with an absolutely Derek-inspired smirk. "Hey, Kuh-laire," she drawled, mocking her sister's weird way of talking, "nice shorts."

Claire beamed. "Thanks! I just love them! Aren't they hawt?" She spun around in slow-motion, and while her face was to the wall, the taller, older, brunette twin rolled her eyes at me. I chuckled a bit; back home in Westchester, Claire was the most popular girl at our high school. No one made fun of her. No one except her sister, apparently.

"It's hard to tell that you guys are twins."

Claire paused, mid-twirl.

Massie's eyes lit up.

Claire bit her lip.

Massie clenched her jaw.

"What. Is. He. Talking. About. Kuh-laire?" Her voice was harder and more intense than it was on any of her albums, even her more hardcore sophomore attempt. Whatever was happening, was a completely serious matter.

Keeping her eyes firmly on her Keds sneakers, Claire mumbled something along the lines of, "Nothing really."

For the first time ever, Massie seemed to realize that she was only wearing a bra and a pair of ridiculously tight jeans. "Cam. Give me your sweater."

"But..." My voice trailed off. This is my favourite sweater. "Why can't you use Claire's?"

She gave me a saccharine-sweet smile. Begrudgingly, and not without a few muttered curses, I pulled off my Briarwood Academy soccer team hoodie (with FISHER and my number, 24, emblazoned on the back) and passed it to the grouchy brunette. Was it her time of the month or something?

I have to admit, it was pretty hot to see Massie wearing my sweater. All the guys on the team got their girlfriends to wear their jerseys during the week of our final match against Grayson. Claire claimed mine was "too gross" and "sweaty" for her gorgeousness to touch. I think she might have actually used the word "gorgeousness."

Claire kind of squirmed around aimlessly for a couple minutes, before she squared her shoulders and took a deep, cleansing breath. "I have a confession to make."

Talk about dramatic?

"Massie is nawt my twin. She's my stepsister. And my real name is Claire Lyons. Nawt Block. When my mom married Mass' —"

"Don't call me Mass!"

"Fine, _whatevs_. When my mom married _Massie's _father, I took her name. Nawt long after that, though, Miss Massie, here, got all famous and quit OCD. So I just pretended like she was my long-lost twin."

"That is the stupidest thing I ever heard. Claire, why would you lie about that?"

As Claire opened her over-glossed mouth to explain, Massie held up her pointer finger. "_Forget it._ I don't care. You're just a...just a... What's that lame-ass acronym you came up for major dorks?"

"LBR?" The blonde suggested, twitching her bottom lip like she always did just before she succumbed to heaving sobs.

"That's it. Now, if you don't mind, I have band practice in a couple hours and I need a couple hours of sleep." She saluted a tear-drenched Claire. "I'm off."

"Wait!"

She turned around, a bemused expression on her face, and gave me The Look. "Yes, Cammiekins?"

"You're not leaving until you make up with Claire."

"Then," she pronounced with a dramatic flutter of her hand on her delicate cheek, "I guess I'm never leaving."

**000**

_Now you move with the tide, and,  
I've heard you've found peace of mind.  
And I know that life's design  
Moves around white lies, white lies, white lies, white lies._

**000**

About two hours, seventeen minutes and forty-two seconds later, (Not that I've been keeping track.) Claire's tears are all dried up and she sniffles out a weak, "I'm so sorry, Massie!" I hand her a tissue like the perfect boyfriend I am and she gives me a grateful look before blowing her nose like an off-key clarinet or, perhaps, a dying duck.

Massie mouths, "_Gross," _but smiles bitterly and proclaims that Claire Lyons Block is forgiven. At the sound of those two words ("You're forgiven.") Claire jumps from the carpeted floor where she's curled up into the fetal position and gives her quasi-sister a bone-crushing hug. It looked awkward and uncomfortable and I'm pretty sure Massie let out a breath of relief when it was over, but I was still glad all this drama was over. Until, I hear the strangest words ever to come out of Claire's mouth.

"Cam," she states simply, through blurry vision, mascara-stained cheeks, and a stuffed nose, "I'm breaking up with you."

WHAT?

_Claire _is breaking up with..._me_??

"Yes, Cam." She nods her head wisely, as if I protested aloud. "I think we're going separate ways in life." (Again: WTF? We're only eighteen; we haven't even graduated high school yet.) "It would just be better for us to go at it alone." (Go at what, exactly?) "Besides," she finishes with a wry grin, "it's pretty obvi-ous to see that you've got your eye on someone else."

"Wh— Who?" I manage to spit out.

Her French-manicured finger twists circles in the air before landing on the slim-boned brunette who's fallen asleep again after acepting Claire's apology.

"Massie?"

She rolls her blue eyes. "Ehmagawd, Cam. Obvi!"

Obvi.


	5. The End's Not Near, It's Here

**A/N: **Sniff, sniff. The last chapter. Your support has been great, but now it's time to click that button and change this fic from "In Progress," to "Complete." Sigh. _**Flasback is in **italics. _

__

**I even measured the distance in miles, instead of kilometres, for all my American readers. **

**Disclaimer: **_(See first chapter for general disclaimer.) _I nicked the chapter title from The New Years' song, "The End's Not Near." Massie's POV lyrics come from "Big Machine" (Goo Goo Dolls).

**CHAPTER FIVE: THE END'S NOT NEAR, IT'S HERE **

**000 **

__

Now your world is way too fast.  
Nothing's real and nothing lasts.  
And I'm aware;  
I'm in love but you don't care.

**000 **

I've always said that life is nothing like the movies. At this point, I'd stopped my fake-snoring (Seriously, Cam can't have believed I was sleeping!) and was slowly peeling back my eyelids to reveal the painfully-bright hallway of our hotel.

"Massie?" By now, Claire had left us, claiming she still wanted to get in a half-mile before breakfast, and Cam plops down beside me. I try pathetically to look alluring. You know? Do that whole looking-up-under-your-lashes thing? I'm pretty sure I just look possessed.

Kissing is hard to describe. The authors of those bodice-rippers Kendra swoons over try their best but,_ come on_. No one wants to hear a three-page-long description of spittle and cracked lips (seriously, I've kissed quite a few guys in my eighteen years, but not one of them has those luscious, perfect lips you hear about) and poking, prodding tongues. Too much information, if you ask me.

So when Cam leaned in, like the leading man in a predictable teen flick, with his eyes fluttered closed, showing off lashes so long and dark they could only belong to guy, I panicked. And, okay, if you've flipped through any tabloid rag in the past year, you'll see my screaming, panicky face under emboldened headlines like "_WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?_" and "_ANGER MANAGEMENT PROBLEMS FOR TEEN STARLET._" Which was why I leaned back. Instead of forward, like good rom-com girl would do.

And why my hand made contact with the side of his face.

"Damnit, Massie! What was that for?"

"I panicked!"

"I can see that." After rubbing gentle circles on his cheek with his large hand, the redness went down and he sat stock-still. We didn't say anything for a while. I don't feel embarrassment. At least, I'm pretty sure that wasn't the reason why my cheeks are turning a shade of pink only found in Claire's drawers.

In fact, I think I'm starting to _like-like _Cam.

Oh, God.

Why is my life such a freaking soap opera lately?

**000 **

__

Now this angry little girl,  
Drowning in this petty world.  
And I'm  
Who you run to.

**000**

_"'_Whiskers on kittens_,'" Claire Lyons chanted softly. From the window seat, she could see Massie Block, perfect, amber-eyed, Massie Block, swimming in the in-ground pool with the rest of her clique and a group of undeniably hot boys. It was then that she saw him. Like a comet or a star or some other beautiful astral object that belonged in the sky, she was hit with the realization of what the phrase "Love at first sight," meant._

_After tucking a hank of fine, flaxen hair behind her sun-freckled earlobe, she powered on the Macbook which had been in the guesthouse when the Lyons moved in. Claire yawned shortly; she kept one wide blue eye on the brunet boy as she easly cracked the passcode (1234 is not a secure password!) and shuffled through the junk mail flooding her Inbox. After glancing briefly at an Old Navy "On Sale This Week!" ad, she double-clicked on an e-mail from **saraANDsari**, having the Subject line of "HEY, MIZZ WESTCHESTER!" and being marked Urgent. _

_**From: **saraANDsari _

_**To: **ClaireBear _

_**Subject: **HEY, MIZZ WESTCHESTER!! _

It's us, Sara and Sari. We miss you! How's New York life? Sara already bet that you have 20 friends by now. I (sari, couldn't u tell?) bet 30. ;) GETTING TO THE POINT, NOW: We got Matthew Davis (he is WAY cuter than last year, C!) to snap a couple photos of us! And Sara learned how to Photoshop you in at Computer Sciences!

Luv ya,

Miss ya,

Sara and Sara.

XOXOXOXOXO (times infinity!)

_It wasn't supposed to be sad, Claire knew. The bright, emoticon-filled e-mail was supposed to have raised her spirits. She was supposed to have twenty or thirty friends by now, instead of one (the school freak, Layne Abeley). In fact, the Claire Lyons who was the nicest, prettiest, most popular girl in the Orlando public education system would have been outside right now. She would be wearing her favourite Target bikini, the one that looked like denim, and not care that her stomach was perfectly defined like Kristen's or that she barely filled out the top part like Alicia. That Claire Lyons didn't care. About anything. _

_Suddenly, she caught a fleeting glimpse of the girl in the mirror. She didn't like what she saw. Sunken cheeks. Teary eyes. Pale skin. A sheet of one-length blond hair and blunt bangs that had a tendency to make the dreaded upside-down V shape. _

_Goodbye Old Claire, hello New Claire. _

**000**

_And I'm torn in pieces_ —  
_I'm blind and waiting for_ —  
_My heart is reeling _—  
_I'm blind and waiting for you. _

**000 **

Maybe I didn't get my happily-ever-after. Despite our pretend fighting-is-stupid-let's-become-besties routine for Cam, Claire and I still hate each other's guts. Derrick will probably come a-knocking on my door tonight, looking for a sequel to last night's (or, rather, this morning's...?) booty call. My father is a cheater, my mother lives in New Jersey.

And Cam...?

I've always said the best ending to a story is with a kiss. And that's how I intend to end this one. No slapping this time. No pissed-off sisters. No smirky Derrick. No one. Just me and Cam Fisher.

"Massie?"

"Cam."

And as we lean in, our cheeks just brushing and electricity surging through our veins, I realize that maybe I'm not a beauty queen. Maybe I'm notClaire Block's sister. Maybe I'm not even the skinny-jeans-wearing rockstar who smouldered on _Vanity Fair_'s cover last month. Maybe I'm just Massie. And that's all I have to be.

We kiss.

**The End. **

"Shit, Massie!" Derrick curses as he burst out of his hotel room, wearing plaid boxers and a Beatles tee that showed off his much-lusted-over chest.

"Holy crap," Cam and I deadpan at the same time, locking eyes.

Oh, well. I never claimed to be perfect.

**000**

**_Oh. My. God. It's finally finished. YAY! HAPPY (somewhat belated...) BIRTDHAY, HANNAH!!_**


End file.
